


They're All Good Men

by Queen__Queer



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen__Queer/pseuds/Queen__Queer
Summary: Death was supposed to be cold.Billy survives the terrorist attack on Cloud 9 and struggles to come to terms with his continued existence after throwing himself between Dee and a bullet. Aside from the pain of gunshot wounds he finds himself numb and tempted by the nothingness of the possible afterlife.
Relationships: Billy Keikeya & Laura Roslin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	They're All Good Men

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just saying, with the amount of gun fire and chaos, is it really that unlikely that more people would've been caught in crossfire?  
> Also Billy gets shot in the shoulder and then its suddenly the heart and he's immediately dead which, as sad as it is, I will never find it not just a _little_ bit funny.

Death was supposed to be cold.

Morges are cold, corpses are cold, vampires and other undead creatures are described as freezing cold and creepily still. Everything about what happens when one’s heart stops beating is supposed to be _cold_. Uncaring and quiet and after everything is over, painless. No matter how you framed it though, no matter how much flowery language you framed it in, death meant nothingness.

Whatever this was, it was certainly not nothingness.

\---

Billy heard the unmistakable sound of phosphorescence lights above him first. The almost inaudible buzzing was then accompanied by a dull pain splattered across his right side. Finally, he opened his eyes, squinting at first as he adjusted to the bright white light of the medbay. It was mostly quiet, _mostly_.

_List of reasons I know I’m not dead:  
Number 1: The sound of the lights._

He wasn’t alone, Billy noticed as he glanced around. Even his eye movements were sluggish. He groaned and started to sit up, the action catching the attention of a nurse who hurried over. She helped him sit up with a quick and softly spoken, “Careful Mister, you only just woke up, we wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.” She adjusted the pillows behind him before slowly setting him against them and letting go of his arm, “There we go now. How are you feeling, dear?”

Billy blinked, “I…”

“Oh, I supposed that’s a bit of a dumb question.” She fussed around a bit, adjusting the blanket, checking the IV, general things that seemed important but took too much of Billy’s limited energy to keep proper track of, “Anything hurt too terribly?”

“Um, my left side, kind of?”

“What type of pain?”

“Dull, I think…”

The nurse nodded, “That’s good, the pain medication may be wearing off soon, I’ll get Doc Cottle to administer your next dose, he’ll want to talk to you about future dosage anyway.” She pulled the clipboard from the front of Billy’s bed, scanning over the writing and flipping to the second page briefly before she placed it back.

“What- what happened?”

Her face softened, “How much do you remember?”

He racked his brain for the answer, “The bar...gunshots- o-oh…”

“Yeah, you were shot when the marines broke in, three times, once in the shoulder, once in your stomach, and one pierced right to the side of your heart. It’s a miracle you survived, really, not much farther to the left and you would have been dead on impact. You somehow managed to avoid almost all internal damage as well.”

“How long have I been asleep for?”

“Only a few hours after surgery, the anesthesia wore off a while beforehand, not completely, you’ll feel a bit slow for the next day. Oh, and be extra careful about your stitches, Cottle did the one near your heart but another one of the nurses had to do the other two, Doctor Cottle was a bit...preoccupied.” 

Despite the nurse trying to avoid saying so, it was painfully obvious what, or _who_ , the doctor was preoccupied with.

“Captain-”

“Captain Apollo is alright, he had lost a lot of blood but you and Petty Officer Dualla did a good job of minimizing that from what I hear. She visited you, by the way. A few people have been in to see you, that reminds me, President Roslin asked to be contacted when you woke up. Give me just a moment,” Billy gave her a nod and she left, moving to get in contact with likely the CIC, he assumed. He leaned back, the back of his head making a small thud against the wall. He had always been one to let his mind wonder and today- _Is it even day right now? What even counts as day anymore? We’ve just been using one clock, our sleep schedules, and ships’ adaptive lighting to keep track, haven’t we?_ -was no different.

The nurse returned and said something, asking about water, he thought, and despite not comprehending what was asked he nodded in response. Seemingly content, the nurse left him. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. A few minutes later there was the sound of a cup being placed down next to him and the nurse telling him, “Shout if you need anything,” followed by footsteps briskly walking away.

Some time must have passed between when he closed his eyes and when he opened them again, perhaps he had dozed off-

_List of reasons I know I’m not dead:  
Number 2: The dead don’t sleep._

-and was then awoken by shuffling feet and hushed voices. One of the voices, the nurse from before, spoke to say, “I believe he had fallen asleep again when I called. It’ll be like this a lot for a few days, nothing to worry about, his body is healing and he is still on some heavy medications,” he didn’t bother to look over towards the door. With his vision still blurry from sleep and energy drained despite the sleep, he opted to wait until whoever was there to move closer. The footsteps grew louder and he took a breath, slow and deep, and blinked. He looked up at his visitors, noting the nurse’s presence and locking eyes with-

“Madame President?” His voice was weaker than anticipated, hoarse and raspy. Laura Roslin stood at the end of the bed, one arm crossed in front of her and the other putting a hand to her mouth. She looked as if she was about to cry. She looked as if she _had_ been crying. The nurse left the two, going to deal with another patient. Roslin stepped forward, “Oh thank the Gods, Billy, you’re okay. How are you feeling?”

“I’m uh, I’m alright. Been worse,” he forced a smile that was an attempt to put the president’s mind at ease, in response her frown only deepened, “What could you have experienced that would possibly hurt more than getting shot?”

He wanted to say, _Watching you die._ He bit his tongue.

He dropped the fake smile, “Nothing, ma’am. I am alright though, my side doesn’t hurt too much. They seem to be going a bit overboard on the meds.”

“I’d hardly say it's going overboard. I don’t want you worrying about using too many painkillers.”

This time his small smile was genuine, “You know me so well, ma’am.”

“You don’t need to be so formal, Billy, you’re not at work right now, I think you can relax,” her words did nothing to calm him, though perhaps that was mostly due to the pain starting to flair in his side.

\---

It was nice to no longer be stuck in a hospital bed. He was still stuck in _a_ bed most of the time but the ones on Colonial One were better than the ones in Galactica’s medbay. He was at the least grateful that he wasn’t constantly surrounded by the smell of death from all sides. Billy was also incredibly thankful that Roslin knew how to get blood stains out of clothes. It would have been a shame to have to throw out any clothes. Under normal circumstances, the shirt would have been thrown out immediately, and if not then then certainly when the shirt continued to hold blood after several washes, but they weren’t in normal circumstances and so a mostly clean shirt with a few scrappy patches courtesy of Billy’s basic sewing skills would have to suffice and stay as a part of his wardrobe. The blazer was easier to mend. Somehow not much blood had gotten onto the jacket and all but one patch had soaked through, in which case the darker color of the jacket and the president’s ability to remove blood had saved it. Billy never realized how small bullet holes really were. It was easily chalked up to the severity of gunshot wounds warping how big he assumed bullets were. The hole was so unassuming it would be easy to miss it at a glance.

He was letting his mind wander again, he was letting that happen a lot more recently. What had he been doing? Folding his clothes, right, one of the few tasks President Roslin let him do without fussing over him. He could understand why but it still felt funny that a woman who nearly died while still attempting to run the fleet was mothering him while she got up the next day and got back to work. He _begged_ to be allowed to go back to his job only to be immediately told to rest and that it was all handled. The worst part was that it truthfully was all handled. They found a replacement almost immediately. Billy felt like someone expected him to feel slightly hurt with how quickly he was replaced, it was stupid, he knew it was stupid. For the first day he tried to feel bad, tried to muster a glare when the new aide, Tori, turned her back. It seemed like it would be a normal reaction but instead all he could manage was the same feeling of being nearly numb to the world around him.

Billy grimaced, the still blood stained shirt in his hands. He dropped the shirt and stood, gripping onto the bed and wall to help himself up. His side had started to ache again. A hand went to his chest in some vain attempt to help stop the ache that was quickly turning to a stabbing type pain. He let out a shuddering breath.

_List of reasons I know I’m not dead:  
Number 3: Being dead wouldn’t hurt this frakking much._

He had painkillers, sitting in a desk drawer. He cursed under his breath. While it was nice that the desk he used remained his for the rare occasion that Roslin allowed him to sort some files, it also meant that he would forget the pill bottle in the drawer as he had routinely done in the past few days. He thanked the Gods he hadn’t been shot in the leg. At least walking itself didn’t hurt. Billy forced himself to walk, leaving the room that he was convinced Roslin had to threaten someone to give up for him, and making his way to the office. The room was empty, thankfully. He walked to his desk where two small stacks of paper sat neatly on either side. He opened one of the drawers and the bottle of painkillers rattled as it rolled around. He grabbed the bottle and left, checking the clock as he left.

_Just past midnight._ He thought bitterly. He almost wished Doc Cottle had given him sleeping pills instead of pain meds.

Once he was back in his room he all but collapsed onto the bed, just barely managing to keep himself in a sitting position instead of completely collapsing. He stared down at the pill bottle, turning it over again and again in his hand. The label had the dosage written on it, obviously, and Billy had memorized it. **One in the morning, one at lunch, and one before bed, do not take on an empty stomach.** The doctor had put a lot of emphasis on never taking more than told to, a stronger emphasis than normal. The drugs weren’t even _that_ strong compared to a lot others. _Almost like he’d known you’d end up here._ The thought was forced from his mind when there was a knock at the door. It was soft and only one person would come to check on him, “Come in,” he called out quietly.

The president entered, wrapped in a silk robe over a nightgown and wearing a pair of adorably fuzzy slippers, “You should be asleep.”

“So should you,” he looked up and put the pill bottle down beside him on the bed.

She shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, “I heard someone moving about.”

He winced, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve always been a light sleeper anyway. What about you?”

It was his turn to shrug and then give a vague gesture to his clothes sitting half folded on the floor, “Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d use the time to do something.”

“Do you want help?” He recognized the tone of voice, it wasn’t a question. She made her way over to him and sat next to him on the bed. She grabbed a shirt and began to fold, placing it next to the small pile of folded clothes he had made earlier. Billy copied her and started to fold. It was meant to clear his mind, he knew, and while it wouldn’t help it was a nice gesture. Laura folded a few more shirts before grabbing the bloodied shirt from where he had dropped it just a few minutes earlier. She sighed, “It’s too bad we couldn’t get it all out, it was a nice shirt.”

Billy stared at the shirt in his hands blankly, “It still smells like it, you know, that day. The bar, the- the _everything_.”

Roslin looked to him with a look of worry on her face, “What do you mean, Billy?”

“It smells like _death_ ,” he furrowed his eyebrows as he struggled to find the right words, “I-It won’t stop, either, no matter how much I wash it or how much blood we get out it still smells like that godsforsaken bar, blood, and _death_. I-I think it’s following me.” He said the last part quieter than the rest.

She placed the shirt down and put a hand on his shoulder, he winced in pain, and she moved her hand to his arm, “Billy, what is this ab-”

“I was ready to die. When they said they were going to kill Dee, I was ready and willing to die. She told me I wasn’t a soldier, and I’m not, but at that moment I understood what the pilots must feel like whenever they get into their Vipers.” He took a breath, “And then when I got shot and I thought I was going to die, I wasn’t scared of it. It hurt, _gods_ it hurt, like someone stabbed me and then forced a torch into the wound, it frakking burned. But,” he looked up and met Roslin’s eyes, “I wasn’t scared. Y-you’re supposed to be scared, right?” His breathing was starting to become fast, erratic, “I was more scared about your death than I was mine.” He paused. “Than I _am_ mine.” He looked away, back down to the shirt in his hands, “I thought that I’d get my fear of death back but,” he briefly glanced at the pill bottle sitting on the bed between the two of them, “it hasn’t yet. I’m not sure it ever will.”

“I think I understand how you feel.”

“You don’t,” he wanted to snap at her. He didn’t have the energy. He half dropped, half tossed the shirt to the ground, “Madame President, you never gave up. When you should’ve- when you had _every right_ to give up you _didn’t_. And I-” _Gods, am I really getting choked up right now?_ “I-I don’t know why I was the one who survived.”

“Billy,” she chose her words carefully, “what happened was a tragedy and good people died, but it was a calculated risk that had to be taken.” She didn’t sound like she believed it. She probably didn’t. He wouldn’t. _She didn’t like to play with lives._

“ _Was it?_ ” He met her eyes again, doing his best to stop himself from breaking down completely, “Was there no other option?” He shifted how he sat and faced his body more towards the President’s.

“The men going in there were trained marines, they knew what could happen.” It was supposed to be consoling.

“But they weren’t the only ones who died!” He was shaking, “She was caught in the crossfire when I was and she had a _family_. She died in a hospital bed and- her family’s _screams_.” He shuddered. “S-she had people to stay alive for b-but _me-_ ” Finally, Billy choked back a sob. He couldn’t breathe.

Laura Roslin had spent years as a teacher before the world ended and after all that time she found that she still jumps into action at the first sight of a panicking child.

Roslin pulled him into a hug, holding him tight and trying her best to ground him. It must have been a funny sight to behold, in a way. A tall, lanky man leaning against a formerly dying woman to keep himself sitting up. He was shaking in her arms. She rubbed circles on his back as Billy struggled to breathe. What felt like hours later to him but was in all likelihood only a minute or two, he choked out, “I-I didn’t know her name, she lived on Cloud 9, w-why would I? I h-heard her die and I didn’t even know her name.” He gasped for breath, “I-I’m sorry, I-”

Roslin shushed him, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Her voice was soft and comforting. Billy curled in closer to her instinctively and muttered, “Why did I get to live?”

“Maybe,” _How does someone answer a question like that?_ “Maybe the Gods wanted you alive.” It was a long shot, she knew Billy was never very religious but perhaps after everything that happened on Kobol…

“I wish they didn’t.” It was cold and it was harsh. And that sentence hurt Laura more than nearly dying had, maybe. It stabbed her through the heart. Billy continued, “I-it would’ve been easier. A-and I don’t think they did. ‘Cause I-” he took a breath and struggled to finish his sentence, “I think a part of me didn’t make it out…” His tone was dark and sure. He pulled away and finding himself unable to look at Roslin he opted instead to stare blindly at the ground to the side of them, “It got,” he swallowed and tried to steady his words, “ _replaced_ by something else. S-something’s been following me. I-I can’t sleep anymore c-cause it’s always just, _there_. Trying to pull me back…It would be so easy to let it. I-I wouldn’t leave a hole that couldn’t be filled. Y-you’ve already got someone to do my job and-” He shakily sucked in a breath and whispered, “I might see my family again. I-I never got to say goodbye. My brother would’ve been in his dorm, i-it would’ve been night where he was on Picon, he’s even less social than I am s-so, he must’ve been alone.”

He looked up at Roslin, his eyes were pleading to someone, anyone, “It was his first year at college. H-he always joked about how- how despite living on Caprica he was the first one who we could afford to go to a college off-planet. He graduated highschool early, I-I remember it was a whole thing cause he was a minor on Caprica a-and Picon so there were a lot of hoops they had to jump through. There was- a lot of firsts like that that year.”

He let out a shaky breath and looked down. Trying to pull himself together, Billy leaned back, realizing how close he had been to the President, “I-I-” He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. Clearing his throat, he apologized, “I’m sorry, Madame President, I-I shouldn’t be- I was just- That was incredibly unprofessional of me,” he finally decided, “I, uh, I really shouldn’t keep you a-any longer than I already have. Y-ou should really be sleeping, or at least, not be here.” His voice still wavered as he spoke, “Can we just, um, can we just forget about this? Please?”

“Billy,” Roslin began, the question of how she will continue her sentence still unanswered by her own psyche. That is, until she continued speaking, “Look at me,” stern ended up being the route she went. Billy glanced at her, “No, look at me properly,” he did, reluctantly, “You’re alive right now and _nothing_ is going to change that so long as I am still here. We’ve all lost people and none of them were unimportant, and no one that we’re _going_ to lose is unimportant. The loneliest man alive right now is still out there, stuck on a ship, surrounded by people who would notice if he stopped leaving his room one day, because we don’t have the luxury of being lonely anymore.” She took his face in her hands, forcing eye contact between the almost mother and son, “I put you through a lot, no one your age should have to have done half the things you did for me, and I will _never_ stop being thankful for every moment you spent by my side.” She took a breath, “And you don’t know how much it hurt to see you laying there because of me.”

“Madame President, you didn’t-”

“ _No_ ,” she cut him off harshly. He shut his mouth. “ _I_ sent you in there for work and even if I didn’t, I’m the president and the going-ons in this fleet are _my_ responsibility. You’re my responsibility.” This time, Roslin dropped her eyes, “And _I_ need you here, alive and well. You’re-” she cut herself off and took a breath before meeting Billy’s eyes again, “You’re like a son to me, Billy, I can’t lose you so soon.”

“Madame President, I-”

“You don’t need to be so official, gods.” She sounded tired with him but not annoyed, “You’re not working right now, you can stop with the titles. How many times do I have to tell you?” she asked sarcastically.

“Just,” Billy sighed, “Thank you. Thank you.” He sat up, “I should-” he winced in pain.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, I’ll grab you a glass of water.” She stood and left the small room. Billy leaned his head back against the wall and let out a breath. Roslin’s appearance had provided a distraction and with that gone his brain could once again focus on the splotches of pain along his left side. His shoulder always seemed to hurt the first and for the longest. Over use, he supposed. Plus, he had ripped the stitches once.

It was stupid, what about his situation wasn’t? He hadn’t been released back to Colonial One yet, luckily. The specific day didn’t matter, he couldn’t precisely remember what he had been doing but he had suddenly reached for _something_ awkwardly and a bit too fast and tore the stitches. Of course those stitches were the ones to go first, the nurse had told him herself that the Doctor wasn’t able to do the stitches. Her tone had, he thought, almost hinted that Doc Cottle wasn’t only unable to do the stitches, but was not the one to take out the other bullets either.

He did his best not to curse Apollo (you wouldn’t want to curse the man and accidentally anger the god). The golden boy, son of the Admiral, would obviously take priority.

Though, when he had torn the stitches, Cottle was able to see to him that time, not without a stern talking to about not hurting himself more. Billy hadn’t done a very good job of following that order.

His train of thought was cut off by the door opening again. He looked up to the President making her way over with a glass of water. He grabbed the pill bottle from next to him, popped off the cap, and dumped one of the painkillers into his hand before replacing the lid and dropping the bottle back onto the bed. He took the water from Roslin with a soft, “Thank you,” and swallowed the painkiller. She smiled and lightly ruffled his hair, “I’ll let you get some sleep.” 

“Thank you, for- for everything.”

“Of course, what else am I here for?” With that, she grabbed the pill bottle and left. At the door she paused and with a final, “Goodnight, Billy,” she was gone.

The room was quiet and comfortably warm, the night was still. 

_List of reasons I know I’m not dead:_  
Number 4: The dead can’t care about people.  
Number 5: The dead don’t feel guilty for surviving. 


End file.
